


Warmth

by Darrasu



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Short One Shot, ghost Jaune, monster verse, zombie Cardin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darrasu/pseuds/Darrasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead don't feel warmth; that's something only the living were privileged enough to still experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Another Monster!verse thing I wrote up around Halloween and forgot to upload

Legs intertwine as bodies press close, the head of the blond buried into the shirted chest of the larger boy, each silent as they merely soak in the affection that one another gave. It’d been so long since either felt this way, felt the care of another “person”, the closeness of another “body”—even if they were both no longer walking amongst the living, neither were referred to as people, and hell, one barely counted his appearance as a body, but merely more of a…”touchable hallucination”.

            It didn’t matter, though. It was good enough, the best that they could do, even if things felt so…different.

            Most things, at least.

           

            Jaune no longer has any reason to sleep, the only time he really needs anything like that is if he’s worn himself down from phasing too often—and it isn’t exactly a…sleep, as it is that his whole existence seems to just. Stop. It doesn’t last long though, just, long enough for his ghost to pull itself back into “reality”, as if it needed to recharge.

            But, when he’s with this big, undead boy, he feels like he can actually rest. That shutting his eyes _does_ something that he actually gets real _sleep._

His body shifts slightly as he finds the perfect position but against Cardin, one where he feels the most protected—the bigger boy’s arm slung around his waist, his body curled up against the chest of the other, legs touching and or twining together.

            “—You’re warm.”

            The words spill from his lips without much a thought. It seemed to go unnoticed, at least, for a moment or two until the blond realizes what exactly he had said. Warm? As in… _Warmth,_ a cozy feeling, a familiar one, one that would keep the human body going.

            When was the last time he felt…warm? Certainly not any time after his death, no, he didn’t feel much of anything—not cold, nor warmth, just…nothing.

            Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he _actually_ felt it, or if it was just the reminder of it, knowing that yes, he would indeed feel that comforting feeling of the other’s heat surrounding his own space, melting into the area around them both.

            A sob forces itself from the Apparition as the words begin to sink in, slowly realizing what he had said and how fucking _ridiculous_ it was. Warmth, that was something for people who were _still alive,_ for people who could feel the sun against their skin or the cold chill of a winter’s breeze.

            So, why did he feel this way?

            Another sob and now he sounds like he’s choking, like he’s gasping for air to fill the lungs he no longer has—like he’s drowning on the tears that he no longer sheds.

            Fingers are curled tight now against the larger boy who had by now propped himself up slightly, dead eyes focusing onto the blubbering and shaking ghost that clung to the fabric of his shirt. Honestly, the undead is at a loss—was…was Jaune alright? What was happening to him? The sound, the sight, it was so familiar, but—

            The dead don’t cry. It just, it’s no longer a function that their bodies need, whether zombie or ghost—

            But…here Jaune was, clinging onto his shirt like his “life” depended on it, that little frame of his trembling as choked sobs force themselves from whatever vocals he used. 

            “Jaune—“

            The bronze haired boy cuts himself off before moving his position on the bed, sitting up now against the bedframe with the blond in his arms, letting the scraggly body of the ghost rest up against his chest. Cold fingers run through the soft tufts of yellow, quiet “shushing” sounds passing chapped lips. His heart no longer had a beat, but still, he could feel it breaking.


End file.
